


Rewind

by A_Stressed_Cupcake



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Curt whump, Death, Lots of it, M/M, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Time Loop, You're just a perfect victim, but I ain't telling you who it is, gay angst, sorry curt, the major character death is temporary, this took a turn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Stressed_Cupcake/pseuds/A_Stressed_Cupcake
Summary: Curt feels drained after killing Owen.He goes to sleep.He wakes up tied to a chair in a weapons facility.The year is 1957.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 142
Kudos: 172





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> chapter warning: Blood, and lots of it, and Curt being very depressed

Curt was sure he was meant to be feeling something. Anything. Crushing grief, or euphoric joy; his partner was dead, but so was the man who had tortured him. He figured, with almost childlike logic, that they might’ve canceled each other out.

Of course, that was staggeringly inaccurate, but hey. A guy could hope. 

He ignored the little psychoanalyst voice in his head that said he was probably so emotionally drained that he couldn’t afford any emotion other than terrifying numbness.

When he went to bed, the pristine sheets felt wet with blood. He ignored it.

In the darkness, he could see faces everywhere. He ignored them.

Three times, on the edge of sleep, an ear-shattering gunshot rang just beside his head. He ignored it. 

On the fourth attempt, he finally felt himself fall into nothing.

_ He kept falling.  _

_ Falling for minutes, hours, years maybe. _

_ Endless blackness. _

_ He wondered if that was death. _

_ He wondered if this was where he’d sent Owen. _

_ He wondered if he would find him there. _

_ He hoped not. _

Curt opened his eyes to a harsh white light. He’d lost count of how many times  _ that _ had been his alarm clock and, quite frankly, he’d never kept said count in the first place. But being kidnapped was the last thing he needed. Ever, but especially at that moment.

He sighed heavily.

“Ah, he lives.” a voice said from behind him. Thick accent. Most likely Russian.

Curt felt a sudden surge of irritation because he really did not fucking need this. He really,  _ really  _ did not need this. 

_ Here comes the condescending tone _ , he thought, nodding at the sheer fucking irony of fate: “Yeah, that’s the idea. Listen, sweetheart, I’d love to have a chat, but I gotta warn you that I haven’t had a great day and-”

He froze. The man had moved in front of him. 

And that stupid hat was just as familiar as that stupid mustache and that stupid accent. 

Curt didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The name, rebellious, formed on his lips anyway, barely even visible, but the man knew him well.

He nodded, ever so slightly, and brought a finger to his lips under the guise of scratching the slight scruff on his crooked jaw. And that was the moment Curt knew something was horribly wrong. Or it was a dream. 

Something came over him then. A maelstrom of emotions with one single thought in its center.

_ I don’t want to be here _ .

He felt worse than the first time he’d been there. Oleg’s punches hurt more, because this time he knew for a fact that Owen was  _ right there _ . And, if this was a dream and if Curt knew him at all, he knew what was going to happen. Nothing. 

No one was coming to help him this time.

He laughed, bitterly.

“What’s so funny, Mr Mega?” the vision asked him, and he laughed more.

“Nothing,  _ love _ .” he mocked, and he could swear the vision flinched slightly, “Go on.” 

They moved away. He overheard a brief conversation in Russian, the usual things.  _ What now, get the pliers,  _ the usual things. Nothing. Nothing that mattered.

Curt figured he was going to wake up at the usual moment, with the sound of Owen’s gun still echoing in his ear. Sometimes it was Russia. Sometimes it was Montecarlo. Sometimes it was even earlier than that, at the very beginning, and soon it would be in a dingy cell, somewhere in the phantomatic dungeons of Chimera, Curt was sure. He knew he was going to have nightmares, because he always did. 

He realized the two men were still conversing. He remembered that too. In his drunken haze, two days after the fall, he remembered thinking that Owen had been buying time. Time was the last thing he wanted.

“Hey!” he shouted, drawing their attention, “Get it over with already!!”

He was sure he’d caught Owen rolling his eyes. And then those same eyes stretched to the size of dinner plates when Curt laid back in the chair and started spouting information.

“My name is Curt Mega, I work for the A.S.S., I’m here to steal your nuclear weapon blueprints, anything else you need or…?”

Owen’s mouth twisted with disdain:  _ what the fuck are you doing _ , he mouthed, indignantly. Curt’s only response was a grin.

Oleg, on his part, looked completely dumbfounded. “He… he’s lying! Liar!!” he blabbered.

Owen’s face contorted into a disapproving smile: “No.” he sighed, reaching into his pocket, “No, he’s not.”

_ Bang! _

_ Bang! _

The poor henchman collapsed with a cry of pain, cradling one of his probably shattered knees. 

“Now, Curt, you know I love a challenge, but that was simply unnecessary.” Owen huffed, flicking his cap off his head with graceful hands. What a fucking joke. Curt laughed bitterly when his partner freed his hands: “Consider it payback for letting him punch me in the face.”

“Yeah, I figured I’d let him kick you around a bit. Good for the ego.”

Curt felt a shiver run up his spine. This wasn’t working. This wasn’t how his dreams usually went. Owen wasn’t supposed to shoot Oleg, he was supposed to- 

“W… what is happening?”

Ah.

_ Speak of the devil _ .

Owen turned to the fallen henchman with a look of almost sadistic glee: “Well, you’ve just been used for sport by two of the greatest spies in the world.”

Curt knew his line. He never said it. Owen kneeled in front of the poor man, still holding the gun: “And though we’ve obliterated your knees, you will probably be one of the few who survive.”

Oleg looked confused. As always: “So?” he asked.

Owen’s smile had always been weird. Crooked quality aside, it looked so strange to Curt. Angelic and devilish. Innocent and mischievous. Sweet and cruel. All at the same time.  _ That _ was Owen’s smile.

“So you’re welcome.” smiled the handsome Brit, and knocked Oleg out cold. 

Curt felt his head lighten and his stomach sink like lead. He wasn’t waking up. Why wasn’t he waking up? His heart sank even further down, into the depths of Hell, then fluttered like a snowflake when Owen turned to look at him. It was all so familiar.

Curt wished, more than anything, that he could feel the way he’d felt on that mission again. Cocky, careless,  _ safe _ . There was no way this could end well. And yet, that feeling washed away when Owen extended his hand. Almost automatically, he grabbed his arm. 

No, he realized with a surge of rage,  _ no, this isn’t how it goes _ .  _ This isn’t fair! _

The rage melted like snow when Owen pulled him into a quick hug. Like he always did. Quick and chaste and not even remotely suspicious.

“You alright, Curt?” he heard him whisper, and it took everything he had to not break down then and there.

“Yeah.” he lied, “Just a couple bruises.”

Owen pulled away: “You know what I meant.”

“I’ll tell you later.” Curt cut the conversation short with yet another lie. He wasn’t going to tell him later. There was no  _ later _ , because this was either a memory or a dream waiting to turn into a nightmare. Like all his good dreams.

Owen looked skeptical, but they both knew time was limited. The scene played out to a fault. The chat with Cynthia, the man sounding the alarm, the man behind Curt, and then that familiar phrase.

“Pass me one of the charges, love.”

Curt shuddered. Wordlessly, he passed Owen the charge.

“Ten minutes.” he said.

Owen turned around with an interrogative look on his face: “What?”

“Give it ten minutes.”

“Why?”

“Just to be safe.”

Owen scoffed, but he was smiling: “Huh. Well, this is new. New philosophy, Mega?”

“ _ Just fucking do it, Owen _ !” he yelled, and the room fell into silence. Dead silence.

“Okay…” Owen said, very quietly, and set the timer for ten minutes. But his piercing glare gave a different answer. It said  _ we are going to address this later _ . It occurred to Curt that, for the first time in his fevered dreams, Owen wasn’t buying any of his bullshit. It was terrifyingly realistic, it was exactly what the Owen that had lived in his mind for four years would have done. 

They left the room in silence.

He turned a corner to find a gun trained on him. Owen, fruitlessly, came to his aid, only to be stopped by another armed man; and soon they were surrounded. Curt remembered that part too. He killed every trace of fear in his heart. It was a dream, and soon it would be over. Whether he threw down that damned banana peel or not, it was always there in his dreams. 

But Curt had forgotten one thing.

Namely, what had saved them the first time. 

They stood surrounded, and Curt waited for the rumble of the first charges going off. 

It never came.

The realization that the three-minute timer had ironically saved them from the hoarde of heavily armed crooks hit him like a bucket of ice water.

_ Ten minutes _ .

No one was coming for them.

Distantly, he heard the henchmen speak.

“ _ We only need one _ .” they whispered, and he heard it when the safety clicked off.

He felt Owen shift uncomfortably against his back. He felt… everything. 

He felt the pulsing in his ears after the loud gunshots; he felt the bullets when they crashed like rain against his chest, and the pain of ruptured veins and shattered bones. Blood spilled from his mouth. 

“ _ Oh _ …” he whispered, a ragged breath, and Owen screamed his name.  _ He sounds so upset _ , he noticed, vaguely, as his legs trembled. 

Curt fell back into the dark.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have to rate this up just because Curt's language gets worse with every loop

Curt opened his eyes to a harsh white light. His breath caught in his throat and he wondered what kind of drugs they must’ve knocked him out with to give him such a vivid dream. It _was_ a dream. It _had_ to be. Because every alternative was ten times worse.

“Ah, he lives.”

The voice sent a chill up his spine. A painful chill. Like being stabbed in the spine with an icicle. The same feeling came again, _I don’t want to be here_.

And there he was again, standing in front of him, infuriatingly handsome under his unflattering disguise; Curt’s heart sank to the floor and shattered, and he realized that someone up there (or down there) _really_ wanted him to suffer.

He realized he hadn’t said anything. Owen’s brow shifted in confusion: “I haven’t cut out your tongue yet. Don’t make me change my mind.”

The tone would have seemed cold to anyone else, but Curt could sense the playful feel to his words. Empty, creative, innocent threats. God, he missed those. Curt didn’t answer, because he didn’t know how to. His head felt like it was going to fall off of his neck. Was it the drugs or the utter despair he felt at having to go through it again? Who could say.

He spilled his guts about everything he knew without so much as a hello. Owen gave him the exact same attitude as before.

He remembered the short timer. Three minutes. They would have to make a run for it.

They were surrounded again and Curt prayed that the charges would go off at the right time.

They did.

“Curt?”

“I lied! I set the timer for three minutes!” he admitted.

Owen spluttered out a noise of disdain: “Curt Mega, you’re going to be the death of me!” he yelled as they booked it up the stairs. Curt said nothing. It felt like a curse to say his line then. He just ran, one hand hovering above Owen’s arm, ready to grab him, to fall with him if necessary. He knew better this time. No matter how wildly his legs fought against him, he would not run away. He was done.

But Owen did not fall; he ran ahead without slipping.

And then the staircase collapsed under Curt’s feet.

The strangest part of falling was the flight; the moment where his stomach felt void and his soul felt free, for just a moment. Vaguely, he heard a scream, a crash, sounds all around, yet he only felt the air breezing through his hair and clothes, gently lulling him down to the unforgiving ground.

 _Crash_.

Bones splintered, once again, a stab of sharp pain in the chest ( _the lung it got my lung_ ), his leg was twisted ( _twisted the wrong way around_ ), his head hurt ( _blood there is blood_ ), pain, _pain,_ **_pain_ **.

A scream.

“ _Curt_!!”

Curt would’ve laughed if his shattered ribs had allowed it. So this was how it went this time. The irony! His dreams, or hallucinations, or whatever the fuck this was, sure had a sense of humor.

Curt was tired.

Distantly, he heard someone running down what was left of the stairs. An idiot, clearly. Who else would run into a crumbling building for another idiot? Idiots keep good company, he reflected, and nodded to himself. Maybe he was hallucinating. Again.

“Curt!”

Oh.

Oh no.

Of course the dream was determined to make him suffer. He had to wonder, sometimes, if he really hated himself so much that his brain would do shit like that.

He couldn't stop himself from sobbing. It jostled all his broken ribs, it hurt worse than hellfire, and the pain only made him sob more; a vicious cycle that could end only one way for him. He found, with abject terror, that he didn't care.

"O… w'n…" he wheezed, and there were a lot of things he wanted to say.

_Get out of here!_

_Please, stop._

_Stop torturing me._

_Let me wake up_.

He couldn't say anything. Owen hovered over him as the earth rumbled with small explosions all over the building: drawing closer, closer, closer. He didn't embrace him like Curt could see he desperately wanted to do. Instead, he knelt by him and grasped his only healthy hand firmly.

"Gh-" Curt felt a wet cough rack his poor abused ribs: " _Gh- et out. Sss... top_." he hissed, and Owen shook his head.

"I'll get you out. Alright, love. Don't panic."

He had no right to sound so reassuring. He had no right to waltz into a collapsing building and play hero. It irked Curt to no end, but he could do nothing as Owen gathered him to his chest and slowly dragged him towards the fallen flight of stairs. Slowly. Too slowly.

He was never going to make it.

" _Ssstop-_ " Curt coughed again, and he could feel something wet on his cheek, " _Please, s…_ ", a cough, " _stop…_ "

Owen didn't listen. Of course he didn't. The bastard could call him _reckless_ all he wanted, but he was no less of a moron than Curt; _what a fucking hypocrite_ , his venomous mind spat as Owen carried him at snail pace, _now we're both gonna die because he's so damn smart_.

And still, shamefully, Curt found himself sinking into his chest as his consciousness started to fade. Searching for a comfort he did not need or deserve, but which he so badly _wanted_.

Owen couldn't drag him far.

The door to the room burst off its hinges, and they only had a few seconds before the building would collapse on them. Owen stared into his eyes, and Curt could see into his soul: fear, yes, but so much _love_ to go with it. He raised his good hand and Owen grasped it tight; he was determined to comfort him, and Curt wanted to scream.

It occurred to him, once again, only when the ceiling collapsed and crushed his damaged lungs for good in spite of Owen's attempts to shield him.

 _This was not a dream_.

And Owen would not have left him behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the sweet irony.  
> You can pry protective pre-fall Owen out of my cold, dead hands.  
> That is all :)
> 
> Thanks once again to my angst channel squad on the SAF discord, you guys slap.
> 
> Feel free to yell at me in the comments or on the discord :)
> 
> -Cass


	3. Three

Curt opened his eyes to a harsh white light. 

_ Not again. _

His head throbbed with the drugs in his system and the bright, annoying light. He felt utterly miserable, and he suspected it wasn't just the fact that he was tied to a chair, so much as the fact that he was tied to  _ that _ chair.

He decided to take a page out of Cynthia's book.

"God  _ fucking _ dammit."

He groaned uncomfortably.

"Ah, he lives."

And there went that stupid accent again.

"Unfortunately." he mumbled.

Three times was not a lot, but Curt hadn't asked for this thing. He definitely, clearly, did not care for the idea of going back in time  _ four years _ . Nor dying again.

Particularly, he wasn't fond of the idea of Owen being stupid and dying  _ with _ him. While it was true that he had now looped three times, he couldn't be sure that it would keep happening. What if it just… stopped, at one point, with either or both of them dead? When did it  _ end _ ?

Owen did not find his comment as funny as he did: " _ Unfortunately _ ?" he repeated, and the Russian accent slipped just a little. 

"Yeah, listen, doll, I got better things to do right now, so if you could just…" he jingled the handcuffs behind his back.

Surprisingly, Owen took the hint. And while Oleg looked utterly confused, he smashed the butt of his gun against his temple. The henchman collapsed.

"Not in a great mood today are we, old man?" Owen teased, attempting to slick his hair back to the way it was before. Emphasis on  _ attempting _ .

Curt wanted out. 

"Not really, no. Just get me the fuck out of here." he mumbled, and Owen raised his brow.

"You alright, Curt?"

"Get me out of here!"

"Okay, okay…" he relented, producing the keys to release Curt. He kept his eyes on him the entire time like that would help him figure out what was wrong. It wouldn't. How was he ever going to figure out that Curt was stuck in the worst day of his life all on his own?

He almost laughed when Owen pulled him into the usual hug. He was  _ so  _ close. And yet he would never know what was on his mind.

He pulled Owen out of the room in a hurry. Maybe they could sneak out unnoticed this time. 

"Curt?"

"Mh?" he snapped out of his reflections. 

"The charges. Aren't we supposed to-" 

"No." Curt decided, "Let's just not be seen. Let's get out of here. Please."

Owen eyed him suspiciously for an uncomfortably long second.

"Alright." he relented.

Curt was starting to believe Cynthia's claims that he was too dumb to live. Case in point: he turned a corner and felt his arm being pulled so hard he thought it would come off.

"Don't move!" someone shouted in his ear, a  _ very  _ familiar voice. Of course the fucker had a gun.

Owen froze in his tracks and it was like seeing in slow motion. His eyes widened in alarm, but not just alarm; it was fear, concern, panic and, most of all, pure unadulterated rage. And Curt knew, better than anyone, how terrifying that rage could be.

He also knew, though, that they really didn't have time for it.

Oleg squeezed his arm tighter. The barrel of the gun to his temple began to hurt. Curt knew there was no time.

"Owen!" he called, "Get out of here!"

Owen shook his head. "Oleg." he said, instead, "Oleg, listen. There are bombs in here. This place is gonna blow up in five minutes and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

Curt frowned. That was an easy bluff to disprove. But Oleg was just stupid enough to believe something like that.

He was silent for a moment. Owen was waiting with bated breath for his response; his feet twitched, ready to sprint on the attack.

The man's grip on Curt's arm tightened painfully. The  _ click _ of the safety coming off turned their blood to ice.

Owen's voice cracked: "Oleg, no. No. You can still get out of here. Don't."

Curt could feel the barrel of the gun trembling. He was indecisive, sure, but that could also mean he had an itchy trigger finger. There was no time. There was no  _ time _ . Someone would show up soon and then they would be outnumbered, with no bombs to save them this time. He needed to break the tie.

Without warning, he tried to shoot forward and get away, but Oleg was stronger than he looked. Curt found the gun still pressed against his head and his back pressed so tight against Oleg's chest that he could practically feel his racing heartbeat. It was not nearly as pleasant as when Owen did it.

Speaking of Owen, he was a secretly emotional bastard, but he was a clever bastard. And he knew an opportunity when he saw it. Curt may not have been able to escape him, but he had provided an invaluable distraction. And, before Oleg could look back at him, Owen was already lunging at him; teeth bared, like a predator, ready to shoot Oleg down. But there was something he hadn’t noticed.

Oleg’s finger was already on the trigger.

_ Bang _ !

The bullet burst through his chest where his shoulder blades met his spine, and blood surged to his throat, spilling to the floor like crimson rain.

_ Bang! _

_ Bang! _

_ Bang! _

_ Bang! _

_ Bang! _

_ Click. _

_ Click. _

_ Click. _

_ Click. _

Distant and muffled, Curt heard Owen empty his entire clip into Oleg’s chest. It was funny, how easy it was for him. How close he’d been, all that time, to the Deadliest Man Alive; a breath away. Curt hoped it wasn’t  _ his _ breath this time. He hoped Owen would just get out of there and move on, but he knew he wouldn’t.

All of that, provided that whatever this strange dimension was would keep existing after every loop. He didn’t know what was worse.

Owen was pressing something to his open wound. Maybe his jacket, or Oleg’s. He looked so disturbingly handsome, even like that. Even with panic and despair in his eyes, even with blood on his hands. 

Even without Curt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing Oleg: Well they must've hired him for SOME reason right?
> 
> Curt fans, I'm sorry.
> 
> Saf discord, I'm not sorry. Fear me :)
> 
> -Cass


	4. Four

Curt opened his eyes to a harsh white light.

And then he screamed.

" _ No _ !!" he roared, thrashing wildly against his bonds: "No, please, not again,  _ please _ !!"

He wanted to cry.

He didn't even notice Owen and whatever the fuck the henchman's name was when they grabbed him by the shoulder and added an extra rope to keep him still. He didn't care that Owen was subtly trying to ask him what was wrong. All that mattered was that he was  _ there _ , again, again and again and each time more torturous than the last, and it couldn't be a dream because it was too real. The bullets had felt real, as had the collapsing building, the handcuffs biting into his wrists felt all too real, and Owen's hands subtly trying to offer what little comfort they could felt even more real than usual.

If it was real, he was sure it was hell.

"I don't want to be here." he whispered, slumping on the chair resignedly. 

_ Bang! _

Curt flinched. Oleg collapsed to the ground with a hole between his eyes; his face was almost perfectly symmetrical even then, if not for the slow rivulet of blood trickling down the left side.

"Curt?" 

He hadn't even realized Owen was slipping the rope off his shoulders until it brushed against the exposed skin of his neck. Owen. If this was real, then was  _ he  _ real?

No.

No, Owen was dead. 

But if he  _ was _ in Hell, then maybe it was him.

Then again, if he was in Hell, why was Owen so kind? Gentle, as he cupped Curt's face in one hand and produced the keys to the handcuffs with the other.

"I'm sorry." he murmured, "You don't have to play along, love, but just out of curiosity… why didn't you? You know, if it hadn't been me here, you could've been in trouble." he chuckled humorlessly as the lock clicked open.

Curt laughed bitterly: "I'm done playing along. I've been here four times already."

"You've been captured more often than that, I'm afraid." Owen pointed out, polite, but with an undertone of thinly veiled concern. Oh yeah, he was right. Just not the way he thought he was. 

"No." Curt insisted, "Here. In this chair, in this building, on this day. Here."

"I… don't… understand, Curt?"

"Here. I've been  _ here _ before, in this room. On June 21, 1957. I know I have."

Owen eyed the syringe laying abandoned on the table: "Ah. I see."

"It wasn't the drugs, Owen!" he snapped, "I've been here!"

"Yes, yes Curt, of course. But we'll discuss that later." his partner said, helping him to his feet. He lingered just a second too long holding Curt's arm. And then the usual, short and sweet, embrace.

"Curt, you know I would never let them hurt you. You know that, right?" he whispered into Curt's shoulder.

Curt nodded as if he didn't know that was a lie. “Yes.” he laughed, bitterly, “Yes, and  _ I would never let you down _ .”

"Good." Owen murmured before pulling away.

The timer was at three minutes and Curt was about ready to leave. He knew they would get away from the guards, but it didn’t make him any less nervous when the guns were pointed at him.

The charges went off.

_ You’re going to be the death of me _ , his partner chided once again; once again, he ignored it. He pulled Owen away from the unstable spot, climbing the stairs three at a time, running faster than he remembered, because debris could be dangerous even if you weren’t under a collapsing ceiling.

For the first time in four loops, they made it out of the damn building. 

The grass outside was soft. Curt hadn’t noticed back in ‘57, but it was strangely soft for the outside of a weapons facility. It felt inviting under his feet and Curt wanted to stop. How was he going to get Owen to believe him? He wasn't, probably. He had no proof. And, judging by how much sedative was left in the syringe when Owen had looked at it, he  _ had  _ been drugged pretty heavily. 

"Curt?" he heard his partner call, and he realized he had frozen in his tracks way behind Owen, "Curt, hurry up!"

His tone turned urgent before Curt could answer: " _ Curt, behind you _ !!"

Time slowed down as a gunshot rang out from behind him. 

Something bumped against his side. No, not bumped. It sliced through his skin and embedded itself in his side and it hurt. It  _ hurt _ . Not dream pain, real pain, sharp, then fading to a dull throbbing. He had been shot. Again.

Another gunshot. Someone dropped to the ground behind him and then there were arms around him, and a voice.

"I've got you, love. I've got you."

Owen's voice was uncertain, like the steps a baby deer. It cracked at the end, and then it dropped to a whisper, murmuring reassurances in his ear, and Curt leaned against him without hesitation this time.  _ Fuck it _ , he thought, and he allowed himself to be selfish for just a moment. He had Owen there. The old Owen, the one that didn't want to electrocute him until he could see flashes of red in the corners of his eyes. So he could enjoy it while it lasted. Which, if the wound was any indication, wasn't a very long time.

Owen dragged him to an abandoned cabin in the woods before any surviving guards could find them. The comm crackled and sputtered in his ear, but nothing came through. No signal.

"Shit…" Owen cursed under his breath, pressing his jacket to the open wound.

Curt was sure he must've blacked out at some point, because he knew for a fact that that cabin was miles away from the facility. And there was no first aid kit. And no signal. And Curt could feel every drop of blood he was losing.

He knew then that he wasn't getting out of this one. So did Owen, most likely, but he would never admit it.

"Hold on, Curt. I have no stitches so I'd better not take the bullet out. You'll be fine, love, you'll-" 

Owen cut himself off when Curt stifled a cry of pain. And then he pressed on: "You'll be alright. I- I'll get help. I'll stop the bleeding and then I'll go get help and-"

"Owen." he murmured.

"Yes, dear?"

"Don't lie to me." 

He felt bad putting it so bluntly, but he didn't want Owen to waste time on empty reassurances. He had him there, and he wasn't gonna spend his last minutes talking about this phantomatic  _ help _ Owen spoke of.

The man didn’t deny his attempted deception. He knew it was pointless. He kept pressing his jacket against the wound anyway, like he could save him. And he was silent. Curt hated silence.

“Owen?”

“Yes?” 

Oh, his voice cracked a bit there. Never good. Curt almost made a sarcastic comment, but he felt his voice weaken by the second and there were more important things.

“Hold me.” he whispered.

It took him ten minutes to slip away completely, lulled by his partner’s beating heart. 

He had just enough time to hear Owen's rage explode into a scream of anguish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I keep indulging my compulsive posting habits? Probably.  
> I'm writing a lot for Rewind and, while I will not post the whole thing in one day, I won't space it out with a schedule either because I AM IMPATIENT OKAY-
> 
> thank you SAF discord for being my angst family
> 
> -Cass


	5. Five

Curt opened his eyes to a harsh white light. 

He was laughing before he even realized it.

The two men beside him exchanged an interrogative look that meant different things. Oleg’s meant  _ what do we do now _ , whereas Owen’s was more of a  _ what is he doing now _ kind of look. Both of them ignorant to the meaning of Curt’s laughter, they inched closer with a sort of curiosity.

“Ah.” Owen commented, but didn’t add the usual  _ he lives _ , which only made Curt laugh harder. 

“What’s so funny, Mega?” he asked, and the Russian accent slipped just a little. 

“Nothing!” Curt laughed, “Not a single goddamn thing! I hate every part of this!” he chirped with a strange sort of cheer. Then, turning dead serious, he stared at the man on his right: “Owen, cut the shit and get me out of here.”

The exchange that ensued was as fast as it was hilarious. A brief moment of panic in Owen's eyes, met with slightly longer confusion in Oleg's; panic turning to annoyance, confusion turning to fear, and then Oleg was knocked out. 

"What the hell, Curt?" Owen sighed, tucking his gun back into its holster and fishing into his pockets for the keys to the handcuffs, "You're lucky it was me here. You're lucky this poor chap's an idiot. A stunt like that could've got us killed."

"It's never gotten us killed before." Curt shrugged, meaning more than Owen could possibly know.

"There's a first time for everything, dear."

The handcuffs clicked open. Before Owen could pull him into the usual hug, Curt stole his gun and shot Oleg in the leg.

_ Bang! _

Owen's utter confusion was mixed with horror this time: "Curt, that seems unnecessary. He was already unconscious-"

"We don't want him following us, trust me." he replied, searching Oleg's jacket for a gun. He didn't find one. Oh well. Not much else he could do.

"I know, but-"

"No." Curt cut him off, "No, you don't. Let's get out of here. Please."

The look Owen gave him was skeptical at best, but he didn't have time for that. There were bigger problems. 

He made sure to follow the steps.

Timer at three minutes, check.

Avoid that spot on the staircase, check.

Run without pause, check.

Shoot the surviving guard before  _ he  _ could shoot  _ him _ , check.

They ran through the woods, far away from the facility and the cabin; Curt could hear his heart pounding in his chest, in his ears, in his legs, run,  _ run,  _ **_run_ ** . When Owen paused, he pulled him along, maybe a bit more roughly than he should have;  _ run _ .

"There's no signal here!" he yelled, "If we need an extraction we need to get away from here!"

They ran through thick woods, pushing through the marsh and brushes of late spring, and ended up in the heart of a city whose name they didn't even know.

Curt's watch immediately sprang to life with seven missed calls from Barb. 

" _ Curt _ !" her voice came out even shriller than usual, " _ Where are you? I- we've all been worried sick about you!! _ "

"Barb." he greeted with a sigh. He was… not in the mood to talk to the poor girl. But they needed to get out, immediately, and he was already waiting for the helicopter to crash for all the luck it was having.

But it didn't.

They reached the (unofficial) American Embassy without incident and Curt almost wanted to cry. Owen kept trying to meet his gaze and he kept consistently avoiding it. The works.

"Curt?" he whispered when the pilot wasn't looking, "Are you alright?"

"Mhm." Curt nodded, absent-mindedly. 

"You're really not, though. Are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Curt-"

"I'll tell you later." he promised, knowing very well that more often than not there wouldn't be a  _ later _ . Curt was a master at handling interrogations, but it was no wonder Owen kept forgetting it, what with his behaviour in the past few loops.

He expected to be sent back to the States in a matter of hours. What he did not expect was for Cynthia to be there already.

_ Why does the universe want me to suffer so much? _

Cynthia took a long drag of her cigarette, scanning both of them with her eyes. 

"So." she started, "Which of you had the brilliant idea to blow the whole fucking place to kingdom come without explicit permission?"

The question was a formality and they both knew it. Her eyes were fixed, not unreasonably, on Curt. And Curt found himself utterly terrified. He knew that Cynthia was not above attacking him just to test him and he couldn't do it again. Not again. Not  _ now _ .

"It was me." said Owen.

Curt blinked. Owen smiled apologetically at Cynthia: "I thought we should dispose of the evidence, you know. Leave no trace of our presence. We'd been on every security camera."

_ What are you doing, _ Curt wanted to scream, but he knew exactly what the limey bastard was doing. Was it gonna work? Unlikely. Did Curt appreciate the attempt? Yes, actually. 

"Carvour." she nodded, bringing the cigarette to her lips again.

"Yes, dear?"

"Who the fuck do you take me for?"

Owen, judging by his face, wasn't expecting her to question his impeccable logic: "Uh…"

"Blowing up buildings without so much as asking for permission is a neon sign, and it says  _ Curt Fucking Mega _ in big red letters." she glared, pointing the lit cigarette uncomfortably close to Owen's face, "I don 't know what the fuck made you think you could lie to my goddamn face, but it was dead fucking wrong."

Curt snorted.

"What's so funny, Mega, you dumbass?" she seethed, and he felt that one trace of amusement melt away like a popsicle.

"Sorry." he murmured, and he wondered how Cynthia could still hold such sway over him when his heart was dying slowly.

"You better be. Oh, and Curt?"

"Y-"

_ Bang! _

A sharp pain between his ribs. 

He heard Cynthia whisper at the same time Owen screamed.

"Oh shit."

" _ Curt _ !!"

There was a howl of rage then, primal and terrifying, and a flash of brown nearly swept Cynthia off her feet. She just barely managed to dodge, but it was like a gladiator against an angry beast: she could _ only _ dodge and not much more, while Curt bled out in the chair.

It was Curt's rattled cough that seemed to bring Owen back to the present, and the blood spilled all over his trembling hands when he went to hold Curt.

Cynthia stood against the wall trying to catch her breath. Curt could've sworn he saw grief in her eyes.

But then he turned back to Owen and whatever speck of grief he'd seen in Cynthia's eyes seemed like a miserable drop compared to the ocean of pain in his. And Curt wanted nothing more than to hold him. 

His wish was granted.

When he finally stopped moving, his head fell on Owen's chest, against his beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, I KNOW, I'M SORRY, YOU CAN BLAME MY DISCOR FRIENDS WHO PROBABLY DIDN'T THINK I WOULD INCLUDE THIS ONE (you know who you are)
> 
> -Cass


	6. Six

Curt opened his eyes to a harsh white light.

" _ Come on!! _ " he shouted, completely ignoring the heart attack he'd just given to everyone else in the room. He turned his eyes to the sky (or rather, the lamp above him): " _ Just strike me down in one, you bastard _ !!"

He laughed, hysterically, simultaneously amused and desperate to get away from this  _ time loop _ bullshit. He was convinced, by that point, that this must have been Hell.

Owen asked him something and he only laughed harder. Harder and harder, until tears streamed down his cheeks and splashed against his shirt. He looked up to see Owen's downright horrified face and realized how weird and out of character that sight must have looked to past Owen. So Curt pulled his expression into one of indifference and gave him a little smile: "Did I scare you?"

The answer was  _ yes,  _ based on Owen's face, but what he said instead was: "Now why would I be scared of little tears?"

Curt shrugged.

"Do your worst." he challenged, "Electrocution, fingers, teeth, punches, cuts, waterboarding, you name it. Go on."

He knew very well how typical that kind of response was from him and Owen, as expected, didn't suspect anything. Except, he did. Because Curt's little breakdown earlier, combined with the gleeful acceptance of whatever kind of torture they could think of was definitely suspicious.

"Why cry, Mr Mega? From what I've read about you, it seems…" Owen waved his hand around to look for the right word, "... uncharacteristic. Is that how you say it?"

"Good, that English literature study did you some good." Curt teased, and he could see Owen's muscles tense up. Luckily, Oleg was none the wiser, but God, was it fun to watch Owen freak out over inconsequential stuff. Maybe Hell wasn't so bad.

"I… do not understand what that means." Owen lied, before getting all up in Curt's personal space in that goofy, sort of playful way that lovers have; "But what I do understand are the sounds of a man in pain. Do you fancy nursery rhymes, Mr Mega?"

Curt was faced with a choice when the pliers closed around his pinky finger. Do what he'd done the first time or… not. Broken fingers weren't so bad compared to broken ribs or bullet wounds, and Curt barely found  _ those  _ scary anymore.

He looked at Owen, smiled, and then immediately looked away when the pliers crushed his index finger. The trigger finger. Surprisingly good choice on Oleg's part, he vaguely thought through the pain and the horrible crunch of bone, and he couldn't help a small whimper.

And then Oleg was on the ground with a hole in his chest, a victim of Owen's notorious vengeful streak no doubt, and Curt wanted to laugh because that was  _ so _ typical. So familiar and uncomfortable at the same time. Owen's rage was something out of the uncanny valley and he vaguely remembered a time when he had feared being on the receiving end of it. But 1957 had been a different year; a good year, he would say, when he'd found himself never once fearing Owen. In fact, that manic gleam in his eyes when he shot down anyone that dared lay a finger on Curt had been… kind of attractive to him, in all honesty. 

But now, with four years and a few close encounters with the Deadliest Man Alive under his belt? Curt just didn't care. He couldn't find the energy to see Owen's rage as scary  _ or  _ attractive.

Speaking of the good man, there he was now, slipping Curt's right hand out of the cuffs as gently as he could and avoiding his index finger at all costs.

"Curt, love, darling, light of my eyes, what the fuck was  _ that _ ??"

Ah, there it was.

"What the fuck was  _ what _ , Carvour?" he chuckled to himself.

" _ That _ !!" Owen exclaimed, "The pliers were right there- Curt, you've never let them break your fingers before! I didn't- you were smiling and- if I'd known you would-"

He bit his lip, cutting himself off again and again, and Curt knew he'd fucked up. It would take time to convince Owen to not feel so guilty, and it was time they probably didn't have. 

But was it worth it? 

He eyed the gun in Owen's pocket wistfully. What could break the loop? Not that, most likely. But God, he was tired.

Owen pulled him into an embrace and he changed his mind immediately. No, he couldn't do that to Owen. Make him watch him die more than he had to. His anguish had been so evident in the past five loops, that even Curt's most delusional anxieties couldn't dispute it.

And Curt realized something he hadn't realized for the past few years. 

He  _ loved _ him.

God, he loved him.

He regretted allowing himself to get hurt, if only because of Owen's continually shifting, guilty eyes. Those goddamn eyes. They were so deep and dark and ever changing; sweet and then cruel, serious and then mocking, loving and then hateful.

Owen's mercurial nature implied ambiguity. He tried to cover it up, of course, tried not to show the workings of his fickle mind, but he didn't always succeed. Not with Curt.

For once, Curt didn't pull away from the hug. In fact, he held him closer.

And he wanted to share his newfound realization.

"I love you." he whispered, "I love you. Oh my god, I love you."

"I love you too, Curt "

"No, I  _ love _ you." he emphasized, hoping his feelings were coming through the way he felt them.

Owen nodded against his shoulder: "Are you alright, Curt?"

"Not even a little bit." he admitted, and it felt like lifting a boulder off his chest. He laughed giddily, leaning against Owen. He felt his partner's grip tighten just a little around his shoulders.

"I'll get you out of here, love. I promise."

He almost laughed harder at that than anything else, but he was too tired to do more than chuckle. In hindsight, he felt so stupid. How had he never realized that Owen loved him? How had he missed the way he was cold to enemies and downright cruel to anyone who hurt Curt? The way he, in contrast, was so soft and caring to him?

How could he have thought Owen would leave him behind?

Curt sank into his arms and left the world behind.

He wanted to stay in his embrace forever, but fate (or whatever the fuck this loop was) had other plans. It was stupid of them, really, to forget about the regular patrols. 

Not for the first time, Owen tried to shield him.

For the first time, though, he was the one who got shot in the back. Curt stared at his crumpled form with vacant eyes. There was no way out for either of them. Either the loop would reset or it wouldn't. Either way, it was over for Curt.

Owen had just enough life left in him to cry out when they put a bullet between Curt's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Curt progressively losing it?  
> No, he didn't have any to begin with :)
> 
> Rip Owen
> 
> -Cass


	7. Seven/ Eight: Prologue

Curt opened his eyes to a harsh white light.

He said nothing.

There was nothing he  _ wanted _ to say. Was he doomed to repeat the day no matter what? To be killed as a best case scenario, and hear a grief stricken Owen's screams of anguish; to watch Owen be shot down as a worst case scenario, and then be killed himself?

There was no way out unless he could break the loop. Great. Good. The only glaring problem with that was that he had no idea how to do that. 

It occurred to him that maybe all he had to do was make it to the next day. Or maybe there was something specific he needed to do. Maybe it would just end eventually, with no warning whatsoever.

But would it?

Besides, he would never know if the loop was over or not until he died. Great.

Oleg was only alerted to Curt's wakefulness when Owen walked towards him, almost transfixed.

Curt realized only then that there was something wet on his cheeks.

And once he'd noticed the tears, there was no hope of holding them back. He saw Owen flinch when he let out the most guttural sob he'd ever allowed to escape him; and Owen had to know something was wrong, because Oleg was out cold before he could say a word.

Curt decided at that moment that he didn't care anymore. That he could allow himself to be comforted, just this once, because there was no escape for him.

"Curt?"

Owen's voice was the sweetest voice he'd ever heard and he leaned his head forward. Tears spilled onto his trousers.

Someone wiped the tears away. Owen. His hands were cupping Curt's cheeks like they were made for it.

He sobbed again.

"Oh, Curt, love, what's wrong?" Owen asked him, softly. Curt didn't answer. He didn't know how to.

"Curt?" he continued, "My love?"

_ Oh, he's going there _ .

_ My love _ was a nickname of the special kind. One that Owen didn't use lightly. He must've been worried.

Curt forced himself to smile at him: "Hey…"

"What's wrong? Curt, you're worrying me."

He knew he was. But what could he do? It was the pain of a prisoner that didn't know if or when he was going to be killed for good. One with a cellmate who was blind and deaf and, despite loving him dearly and being so close, could do nothing to help him. He wondered how long Owen had been a prisoner, if at all. He wondered what had happened to him in those four years, and then killed his curiosity, knowing he would never get an answer. If he was lucky.

But was he ever?

"Curt?"

Right, he'd asked him a question. Curt nodded quietly.

"I'm fine." he murmured, but his resolve fell along with the handcuffs and he collapsed into Owen's embrace. Breathing in his cologne, he felt at home again, and he almost wanted to just… stay there, every time, until the guards came and riddled them both with bullets. But no, that would be cruel to Owen, even though he wasn't even sure that version of Owen would go on existing after his death. But, if he was going to, then Owen would have to watch him get gunned down, and then who knew what could happen to him.

Curt found the thought more distressing than he'd anticipated; his breath caught in his throat, and he pulled his arms tighter around Owen before letting him go. Kinda. He still kept his hands fisted in his jacket. What to say?

The usual  _ let's get out of here _ ?

No, there was one thing he kept repeating to himself, over and over. More to whatever was up there than to Owen, he whispered it.

"Don't let me die."

Owen seemed surprised, but nodded gravely. 

“Let’s go.”

Curt did not want to die. Not really. 

It had taken him longer than he would've liked to realize that completely; to tell himself, in those exact words,  _ I want to live _ .

He had died six times, and yet he hadn't died once. Not really. Because was a momentary death really death? Hardly.

It occurred to him that maybe there was something he could do. 

He turned to Owen: "Owen?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me a secret." 

Owen looked at him with a mix of  _ is he okay _ and  _ is this really the right time _ that Curt would probably, more generically, define as  _ are you serious _ .

"Now?" was all he asked.

Curt nodded.

"I… Curt, we're in the middle of a m-" Owen tried, but Curt dragged him into a convenient broom closet by the wrist.

"Owen, please. This is important." he murmured, "This is… more important than I'll ever be able to tell you."

"They'll find us here."

"Maybe." Curt chuckled, bitterly, "But I have an idea. Trust me. Do you trust me?"

Owen took a long pause. Then he sighed: "With my life, dear."

"Bad decision." Curt laughed again, even less sincere than before, "Regardless, I need you to tell me something you have never told me before today."

"Curt-"

"Please."

It might have been the crack in his voice that did it. Owen's shoulders slumped in defeat and he paused to think. 

An agonizingly slow minute ticked by. 

Then: "I think I was seven years old when I committed my first crime." whispered Owen.

"Really?"

"Yes. I stole a toy from the marketplace. It was just a spinning top, really. But seven-year old Owen wanted it, apparently." he chuckled.

Curt felt a soft smile bloom on his lips: "What did it look like?"

"Red." Owen replied, without hesitation, "Shiny red, with little yellow and brown patterns."

"What were the patterns?"

"Mostly triangles." Owen laughed, "God, I can't believe I still remember it! It broke less than a month later."

Curt laughed with him, softly, taking in the pleasant tickle of Owen's breath against his skin. He reached for his hand, wrapping his fingers around his palm, and then he leaned forward to bury his head on Owen's shoulder.

"I love you." he murmured, "Whatever happens, remember that. I love you. I never want you to think otherwise. It's not worth it."

"I'll never doubt it." Owen promised, wrapping his free arm around Curt's shoulders, "But, Curt…"

He seemed to pause when Curt froze stiff under his touch. But the wait was worse than whatever he meant to say: "Yes?"

"Is now… really the best time to have this conversation, dear?"

Curt deflated: "No, not for you."

"And for you?"

"Yes." Curt admitted.

"Then it's the best time."

Curt's smile broke into a grin: "Don't get cute with me, you bastard."

"It might be easier if you weren't cuddling me, love."

Curt mumbled a protest, but made no attempt to move. Silently, he chastised himself for falling into Owen’s embrace when he knew he would be too weak to leave it. He was right. They might be found if he stayed. If they could just escape… 

Curt bit his lip. 

“We have to go.” he said, finally. Owen nodded, reaching for the doorknob.

The lock clicked, useless. 

A weight sank in Curt’s gut. He almost laughed. Of course.

Voices outside.

A hiss. Gas.

Owen turned his head towards him, dark, sincere eyes shining with love; he cupped Curt's face again, dried his tears. 

He said something, but the noise drowned it out. 

His lips said  _ I love you too _ .

  
  


Curt woke up in that chair again.

He smiled. Closed his eyes.

It took Owen a while to realize he was awake.

“He’s awake!” said Oleg.

“Welcome, Mr Mega. Make yourself comfortable.”

_ Oh, slipped a bit on the pronunciation there, doll. _

Curt smiled. There was… something new. Something better. A sort of peace he hadn’t found before, in any of the loops: a new feeling. He turned to Owen and his terrible disguise. If he hadn’t been tied up, he was sure he would’ve kissed him: "I'm pretty comfortable as it is, sugar. If you could find some margaritas, it would be perfect."

A shiver ran up his spine, and he felt it.

_ Something’s different _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right!!!  
> This has been a surprise prequel to my other saf fics all along!! :D
> 
> And this is why I couldn't hint at you how Rewind ends, discord friends. Because it doesn't.  
> (Samuel Beckett bless me)
> 
> Please feel free to yell at me :)
> 
> -Cass

**Author's Note:**

> No regular posting schedule for this one, blame my friends over on the saf discord :,)
> 
> Join us and do not die :D  
> https://discord.gg/4RtDes
> 
> Feedback is very much appreciated :D  
> -Cass


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